Page 11 of Ignition

Chapter four

Mia

The scent of rain hit my nose as the damp lawn squished under my feet, carrying traces of last night’s storm: windswept pebbles, sodden leaves, and broken twigs the groundskeepers hadn’t got to yet.

No hint of torn balloons lingered, as if yesterday hadn’t happened, but by the anger still simmering in my veins, I wouldn’t forget it in a hurry.

The library stood tall and proud on the far side, the only white among burnt-red brick, calling to me like a beacon. The pale stone wasn’t weathered with age, and no ivy clung to the facade yet. A huge arch opening framed the glass doors, beckoning people inside, as if the building itself wanted eyes peering in.

The hush greeting me was absolute. The rustle of pages alone tickled my ears as I crossed the threshold, arms laden with a pile of textbooks, heart swelling with something akin… reverence. My chest squeezed as my gaze swept up, over the three stories of white ornate arches, and the deliberate cavernous space in the middle, coming to a point in a beautiful oval sunroof.

White wrought-iron railings peeked down at me from every level, stretching endlessly, and bookshelves wrapped around the walls. The scent of paper and ink settled in my nose, hooking me somewhere deep, and a slow smile tugged at my lips.

Every book you could possibly want was here.

I crept across the ivory and amber mosaic floor, until I found a private nook by a window and tucked myself into the corner, sinking into the plush chair with a soft groan. The ache to cuddle up with a blanket and a story was overwhelming. The scent wafting up from my coffee curled around me, and with a sigh, I reached for my textbooks instead.

The bronze lamp switched on, my pen clicked open, and the world fell silent. No rumours, no scathing remarks, no whispers.

Coursework soon sprawled all over the table, nearly swallowing it whole, and my hair hung loose and mussed from running my hand through it too many times. Deep in my studies, a leg tucked under me, and my brows furrowed, I almost didn’t notice him.

But my sixth sense must have been tuned to his silhouette or something.

He slid into a seat within my line of sight—close enough to make my hairs stand up, far enough to remain innocent.

The pages whispered as he opened a textbook and flicked through them, looking like just another model student. But the energy shifted. The soft, focused quiet and the low hum of a hundred brains firing up at once turned into a thicker, more charged sort of silence, until awareness bent and twisted the fabric of the room, pointing to him, as always.

I doubled down, nibbling absentmindedly on a pen as focus wrapped around me like a weighted blanket once more, until the page was all I could see.

Something pricked at the edge of my attention, but I ignored it. Until I couldn’t anymore.

He was mirroring me. I turned a page, he’d do the same. I ran my hands through my hair and sighed? Ditto. I froze for a millisecond or two and frowned, before I forced my eyes to move again.

Tap, tap, tap.

His pen tapped impatiently on the table, making my teeth grind together, though I kept my focus resolutely down. The matte black paper cup with its golden WA logo peered up at me—slow, judgmental, as if it saw right through me—and I took a sip of coffee that had gone cold.

Tap. Tap tap. Tap tap tap.

They grew deliberate, almost like a pattern, until I couldn’t ignore them anymore. Pen hit paper first in a quick tap, then the table—longer, more insistent—then a softer sound against something else, maybe his palm. My own pen froze mid-scribble as I shifted in my seat and tilted my head, listening for it.

“What is he—”

My frame stiffened with restraint not to glance up, not to snap and tell him to get lost. I tucked a strand of floppy brown hair behind my ears instead and bent my head down over my coursework.

Another tap, louder this time, almost in reprimand.

“Keep pretending you don’t notice me.”

I caught his taunting whisper in the space between us, a sound I wanted to snuff out of existence, and hid my eye-roll behind my lashes as I scoffed and refocused on my notes, staring at them so hard, I might burn a hole in the page.

My eyes refused to take in a single line.

Heat crept up my neck, until my skin shrank two sizes and turned all itchy, and his soft chuckle reached me.

As if he’d seen.

My teeth ground together until they ached, and my hand clutched the pen so tight, the plastic groaned under my grip.